


Fault

by Relvetica



Series: Wolves [7]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:47:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1885677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Relvetica/pseuds/Relvetica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Numbers didn't like it when he watched him make phone calls, and he was angry enough as it was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fault

Numbers didn't like it when he watched him make phone calls, and he was angry enough as it was, so Wrench sat on the edge of one of the beds and watched him in the reflection of the motel television, lit by the lamp on the nightstand next to the phone. He wasn't gesturing or moving much; his face was uncharacteristically rigid. They'd fucked up the Bismarck job. All there was to do was tell the boss: the wrong guy got killed, their guy got away, and they had no idea where the photographs were or if there were copies.

Wrench had insisted, emphatically, they not try to ambush the asshole in a parking garage -- there were far too many places to run to or escape from, and if they'd just waited another day they could have cornered him at the safe house -- but that didn't matter anymore. Numbers was taking the beating for both of them right now, so the best thing he could do now was the small favor of not reminding him that he'd told him so. They'd either drive back tonight or in the morning, depending on how this call went, and they didn't even need the excuse of Numbers' weak grasp on sign to avoid talking. Wrench was pretty shaken anyway. He wasn't sure whom he'd shot, but it wasn't the guy he was supposed to have. He was probably just as bad, if he was with the guy. Still, it nagged at him.

The abrupt reflected motion of Numbers slamming the phone down made him turn around, and Numbers glared. You hear that? he signed.

Wrench shook his head.

Numbers continued to glare. Wrench asked him, Are we leaving tonight?

No answer. Wrench tried again. Leaving? Going back out?

Going out? Numbers asked. You're going out now?

No, Wrench signed. He felt like one of his grade school teachers sometimes. You and me, going, now or tomorrow?

Don't know, Numbers signed, and his mouth said, "Do whatever the fuck you want."

Wrench took a deep breath. He wants us there now? he signed carefully, in English word order, or he wants us there tomorrow?

Stop, Numbers signed. Can't now. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed, and Wrench grimly waited for him to look at him again. When he did, Wrench just spread his hands questioningly: what now?

Numbers just stared at him for a long moment. Then he said, that car.

Wrench frowned a little.

That car, Numbers repeated. You see the second car, it works.

I was waiting for the mark, Wrench said. I wasn't watching the entrance.

You HEAR the second car, it works! Numbers threw out angrily.

Wrench just held his gaze impassively. If he were a cop running plates, or a tire-slasher, or a guy with keys to the damn garage, the second car wouldn't have arrived at all, but he wasn't any of those things, was he? He signed, this was not my fault.

Not your fault. Right. Numbers looked away and then back again. Anyone else hears the second car. Anyone else!

Maybe, Wrench said.

Not maybe! Numbers ran both hands through his hair and laughed. Not maybe! You-- he paused and clumsily fingerspelled U-S-E-L-E-S-S.

Wrench's jaw set, but he didn't say anything.

Numbers continued: And now you go out? Like all is fine? What-- he stumbled to a stop and made fists.

I'm not going out, Wrench said, motions terse and clipped. This wasn't my fault. Not my F-A-U--

"I know 'fault!'" Numbers said out loud; Wrench could see he was yelling by how his face contorted. His hands came back up: Whatever, fault! P-R-O-B-L-E-M!

Wrench grazed his knuckles against each other to correct the lacuna. What problem?

You! You're a problem! Can't hear, don't care, go out and suck cock all the time!

Wrench's back stiffened abruptly; he supposed that reached his face, because Numbers' expression cleared of his helpless, misplaced anger immediately, leaving him only dangerously thoughtful. He said something out loud that Wrench didn't catch; his lips parted and closed again without any visible articulation. Wrench stared at him. He hadn't taught him that sign. Numbers had mimed it more than he had signed it.

Don't, Wrench said.

Yes you do, Numbers said.

I mean you. Don't. 

Numbers laughed. Now he spoke out loud with condescending clarity, every word nice and distinct. "You don't care about fucking up with the car or missing the shot, but you care about that."

Don't, Wrench repeated.

Numbers shook his head and turned away somewhat, but Wrench had no trouble reading "faggot" spat at the direction of the floor.

They'd had a conversation -- well, Numbers had spoken and signed together while Wrench glared unflinchingly and said nothing -- about how it was fine if Wrench was like that. As long as he was being safe (that was a point where Wrench pointedly stopped watching and had to be cajoled into paying attention again), Numbers was a D-E-M-O-C-R-A-T, he didn't care. All the same to him. He just felt responsible for him, being older, more experienced. He worried when he realized he was alone in the middle of the night. He was worried about what could happen to him, his partner.

Wrench had wanted so badly to believe that, but he hadn't even at the time.

He stood up, grabbed Numbers by the throat, and shoved him against the wall. Numbers was laughing. "Faggot deaf-mute!" he said, and raised a hand to start spelling it. F-A-G-G was as far as he got before Wrench struck his hand out of his face with a lot more force than he should have. "What are you even doing here? Anyone else could have made that fucking shot! You fucked up a shot anyone else would have made because they would have heard the second fucking car!" He was definitely shouting now; Wrench's entire arm felt the vibration from his throat. "And you don't care. You just want to go out. Fine, go get fucked up the ass by some drunk, you fucking f--"

Wrench let go of him and slammed the blade of his hand into his palm inches from Numbers' nose. STOP, he said. STOP STOP.

Numbers stopped laughing. He stopped smiling entirely.

Wrench swallowed and drew back. Please. Stop.

They stared at each other for a long time, neither saying anything, neither changing expressions. Wrench stepped away. I changed my mind, he said. I am going out.

Okay, Numbers signed.

Wrench had been dressed to leave, just in case -- maybe that was why Numbers was so bent on misinterpreting him -- but instead of going downstairs and outside, and he went up one flight and sat down in the hallway with his back against the wall.

Wrench watched the stairwell for a long time, but the door to the room below never opened. He was stupid and naive, but he'd known that. Numbers was just another wolf from Fargo, all his friendliness and intelligence ultimately irrelevant. Wolves only know how to do one thing.


End file.
